Page 64 of When London Snow Falls

“Who keeps feeding you?” I demand. “How come you’re getting so big each time I see you? Are you eating dinosaurs for breakfast?”

Carys just laughs.

When Emily joins me, not sprinting up the path from the cottage to the parking area, I hug her with my arm that’s free of a wriggling toddler and lean to kiss her cheek. She’s in a oversize cream wool cardigan and sky-blue blouse, her green wellies a stand-in for snow boots.

“Great to see you.” Emily’s smile is warm. Her golden hair is pinned up.

“Brilliant to see you too.” Already, I feel a million times lighter than I had only twenty-four hours ago when I had arrived at my parents’. Emily’s my best friend, the person who gets me the most. If I dare count Ben, that makes two people. She’s the one who stood by me even through my worst times.

When I set Carys down, she plays with the snow beside us.

Emily returns the hug and kiss, then gestures at the van. It gleams with obvious beauty, a bespoke car commercial on her doorstep, gloss black dazzling against the white snow. She grins, giving it a thorough once-over. “That’s some hire car, Charlie. Is the café giving out Christmas bonuses this year?”

“It’s an upgrade from the car hire place,” I deadpan. “They were out of economy cars.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Pack of lies, I’m afraid. I borrowed it from a friend.”

“Which friend is that?” Curiosity is plain on her face.

I blush. “The man I told you about.”

“Ooh, this is so juicy. I can’t wait for the details.” Emily laughs, her eyes bright. “But before I ask you a stack of questions, you must be tired after all of that driving. Come in and have a rest before dinner. There’s plenty of time for questions over the next few days.”

“Any odds of you forgetting your questions? Between now and, say, me leaving?” I try hopefully. A man can dream after all, even if it’s a fleeting chance.

“Definitely not.” She pats my arm.

We all go inside after playing with Carys in the snow for a few minutes. After kicking off snow against the front step and abandoning my boots and coat in the entry, I make my way through the timber-beamed cottage to find Katherine hard at work in the kitchen.

Emily’s gran looks like a sprite with her white pixie cut. She’s small in stature, but she’s a force of nature. Luckily, she likes me. This is confirmed a moment later.

“Hi. Sorry to take Emily away,” I say. “And it smells delicious in here.”

“Charlie! Oh good, you’ve made it.” She gives me a big hug, a genuine hug by someone who is truly glad to see me. Unlike my own family. It’s an uncharitable thought. I’ll call them later today to apologize for walking out last night.

Emily’s gran’s an artist. Her red earrings dangle and she’s in head-to-toe black. “Did you have any trouble getting in?”

“Not today.” I neatly sidestep last night’s drama.

“Well, you’re just in time. You can take the roast out of the oven. And then you and Emily can decide who carves. How’s that for a plan?”

“Brilliant.”

“Also—have wine. Red or white?”

I laugh. “Whatever you have going.”

A few minutes later, the three of us have toasted Carys with white wine for the adults and juice for her. When the roast is out to rest before carving, I briefly call my parents to wish them a happy Christmas. To my amazement, it’s not a complete disaster. We don’t talk about yesterday, as if by silent agreement. They talk to Carys, they wish everyone well. Another miracle. The phone gets passed around to Great Aunt May and to Michael and Jenna too. Then after the call, we feast, greedy, till we laze around and summon the strength later for gifts and pudding. I’ve promised to do the washing up to make myself useful as the afternoon sun pools on hardwood.

After our meal, I play for them on my semi-acoustic hollowbody guitar that I’ve brought along for the trip, plugging into a mini amp, tapping on the guitar for a faux percussion section. Carys shrieks and dances with Emily and her gran in turn while I go through tunes from The Stone Roses, a classic favorite of mine and Katherine’s, and we all laugh till it hurts as we try to teach Carys the words to “I Wanna Be Adored” and jam with Katherine with her guitar on “Fools Gold,” then dance with unabashed enthusiasm all the way through Modest Mouse.

Sun fills the warm room, and it’s joyful as we have our own Christmas concert. I can’t stop smiling while I watch Carys. Here, right now, anything feels possible. Forget Maximus St. Pierre’s Christmas special playing muted on the television, live from London. Earlier, the newsfeed on my phone told me that Maximus St. Pierre’s wife announced their divorce today. Shame for him, but we’ve got our own gig going on down here, the most important one of all.

While I sing, I can’t help but wonder where Ben’s at today, and I hope his family’s way better to him than mine is to me. We exchange Christmas texts and promise to catch up later that evening about our day.

It’s a very relaxed celebration, and a happy one. After I put Carys to bed, we all sit up late over drinks and play some of Katherine’s old albums, Gang of Four and The Pogues and even Joy Division. Then, me and Em alternately play tunes from our phones on the wireless speaker while we enjoy the remainder of the evening together. And I’m grateful to Katherine for welcoming here my own small family. They mean everything.

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